Encouragement

Yesterday I posted a blog entitled Discouragement. Tonight I want to visit the flip side.

Twenty-nine years ago, in the spring of 1982, I was a student at New York University and Ronald Reagan was president of the United States. He was pushing for massive cuts to student loans and grants and what-not, and several thousand students decided to mount a protest to Reagan’s planned cuts. At the time, my brother Scott was living with our natural father, Bob Jaycox, in Joppa, Maryland, not very far from Washington, D.C. Once I knew I was going to be going down to D.C. to protest Reagan’s proposed Draconian cuts, I called my brother and asked if he might want to meet me in Washington for lunch or something.

He said, “yes.”

We met on the steps of the Capitol building one March afternoon, almost precisely twenty-nine years ago. It was the first time he and I had ever chosen to see each other, to spend time together. As I recall, we walked around a bit, took in some sights and eventually had lunch somewhere – I have no idea where. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was with my brother. It was great.

I just got off the phone with my brother a few minutes ago. We talked earlier this evening for nearly ninety minutes. We talked about our lives, our hopes, our worries, our concerns, our joys.

We recalled that day twenty-nine years ago that we decided to meet one another on neutral turf, by our own choice, and I couldn’t help but tear up. It was a pivotal moment in both of our lives, and a joyful one. It was the first time that we decided we wanted to see each other, to visit, to spend time with one another. It was – and remains – a gift. A gift that we gave each other. We decided that we were brothers, we embraced it. It was always so, of course, but it meant so much more after we embraced it.

And so while last night I mused about discouragement, tonight I write of encouragement, because the meeting that my brother and I had twenty-nine years ago is one of the most encouraging things I can imagine. And the conversation that we had tonight was just what the doctor ordered.

Namaste.

Discouragement

None of us is eager to embrace the title, to admit to being discouraged. And yet it happens in most of our lives, or at least many of our lives. Sometimes, we get discouraged. We might lose hope or feel like we aren’t getting anywhere or feel like we are aimless or restless or lacking the sort of clear guidance that we might prefer.

Perhaps you’ve placed a call to an old friend or a trusted colleague and left a message and it’s been days without a return call. Perhaps you’ve reached out to someone who assured you that they would always be there for you, but this time that’s just not quite the case. What do you do?

You soldier on. You find your own strength. You hold your head as high as you possibly can and even when you feel like you don’t have a damned clue as to what your next best move is you keep on going. You resolve to do what it is you want to do, you resolve to be better at communicating with your friends, you resolve to go after each and every opportunity you can find, you resolve to NOT be dragged into the morass of self-doubt and self-pity. You resolve to tell yourself, “It’s time to stop wondering what life is going to bring me and time to start determining what life is going to being me.”

I’m writing – of course – to myself. It’s time for me to stop wondering what life is going to bring me and it’s time for me to start determining what life is going to bring me. I’m applying for jobs, yes; I’m working (too sporadically) on my manuscript, yes; but I need to embrace that no one can determine more what life will bring me than I can. It ain’t easy. And it often isn’t much fun. But there we are. There it is.

It’s time for me to get back to work; to my work. To writing. Of course I have to pay the bills, and I will – whether that be through writing and directing corporate training work or teaching as an adjunct wherever I can get the work, I’ll do it. But I also need to do the real work, the writing work that I’ve trained for and worked for and that I… ultimately, love.

My late birth father had a phrase that he used a lot. He would say, “Well, good enough.” His saying “good enough” meant so much more than what those two words instantly imply. It meant, “All is well.” It meant, “Now we can proceed.” It meant, “Full speed ahead.” It is high time for me to heed my late father’s words, “Good enough.”

Damn whatever torpedoes might be waiting in the wings. Full speed ahead.

Namaste.

Transitions

Change is often difficult. We are often afraid of the unknown, of the what-will-come-of-our-current-efforts.

I'm in that sort of place right now. I'm applying for a bunch of teaching jobs. My wife is about to leave her job, which has provided us with health insurance for the past three years. We are in transition.

I've applied for jobs here in Chicago, but I'm also applying for a number of jobs that aren't here in Chicago. Michigan, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, South Dakota, among others. We might experience significant change. We might not. But, here we are. We continue, we persevere. We do what must be done.

I'm not afraid to admit that I'm concerned about what comes next. Will I finish my book? Will I get a good job? Will I get anyone interested in publishing what I'm writing? All of these questions lurk, and yet... and YET... one must do what one can to carry on, to keep going, to keep working. On what matters. Chicago has been hit hard in the past week or so by a major blizzard. The snow is still overwhelming. Tomorrow morning, I will dig out my car (again) for the first time in more than a week because I have to be somewhere for auditions for an upcoming project.

It's okay. It's alright. Solutions don't appear overnight. They come when they do. I missed being at AWP this past weekend. At least my book was there. (Thanks Katerina!) I wish you all, whoever might happen upon this - strength and courage and stamina to go on, to face the world as it is, because it isn't always as we might wish it to be. It is what it is, and we must soldier on, trying to find our place in it.

Namaste.

Brian

On Not Blogging Much Recently…

It’s been more than two months since my last post and much has occurred in that time – I’ve been blessedly busy with work for the past two months (needed the money big-time after months of underemployment); a chapter of my chapbook Meeting Dad: A Memoir was nominated for a Pushcart Prize (thank you Accents Publishing and Katerina Stoykova-Klemer!); and, I’ve been cooking… a lot!

Recent dishes include: Linguini with White Clam Sauce, Filet Mignon and Fettucine Alfredo for Christmas Eve (2nd annual meal for that night); Sloppy Joe’s from scratch; tacos from scratch; various and sundry one-pan-wonders with meat (pork or beef) and an assortment of vegetables; Spaghetti and Meatballs (veal and pork); and, on New Year’s Eve, authentic Buffalo Chicken Wings. Perhaps I’ve been putting more creative energy into cooking than I have into writing? Perhaps. Perhaps I also simply needed to take a break, to take some stock, to recharge my batteries, as it were.

On New Year’s Day, I spent some time with some friends (old and new) and was fascinated to discover that there were several of us who either hold (or are close to earning) an MFA in Writing. It felt good to connect with the writing vibe again and I realized that it is time for me to get my butt back into the chair and to finish my memoir-in-progress. I’ve been stymied for several weeks because of my old demons “self-doubt” and “second guessing.” That, I suppose, and simply being exhausted from the pace of work and other vicissitudes with which we all deal, pretty much every day.

There’s been another thing at work however. I think I’ve grown weary of the din, of the constant noise with which we are so often bombarded – pundits and prognosticators making their oh-so-self-important proclamations about Obama and the tea party and Congress and Palin among many other subjects. I suppose I’ve been less eager than other times to add my voice to the din, at least not unless I thought I had something interesting to say, and, frankly I don’t think I’ve had anything too terribly interesting to say about recent political developments. Honestly, I think we all need to take a collective breath and calm down. So maybe that’s it? Maybe I needed to give myself a timeout? Perhaps. Maybe I simply needed to spend some more time in the kitchen – mixing, stirring, inventing, interpreting, exploring.

Now, it’s a New Year. 2011 has arrived. The economy is showing slow signs of recovery, the 112th Congress is convening, next month Chicago will elect a new Mayor, Jerry Brown is once again governor of California and Ahh-nold is likely headed back to Hollywood, given that he can’t run for president.

Here we go, then. A new year, a new decade, and – I hope – a new chance to embrace the work of our lives.

Namaste.

Trick or Treat?

Late last night, near midnight, my wife Gloria and I walked into our kitchen and smelled gas. There had been previous occasions when we’d wondered if we were smelling gas, but then we’d stop and smell some more and think… nah, there’s nothing wrong.

Last night, there was no doubt. We smelled gas and we called the gas company for emergency service.

A man and a woman from Peoples Gas arrived relatively quickly, but then proceeded to treat us in a horrific manner. We explained that we smelled something like the smell of rotten eggs, and the man said, “Our gas doesn’t smell like rotten eggs. We put Mercaptan in it.”

Wikipedia tells me that Mercaptan is “a colorless gas with a smell like rotten cabbage.” So, I guess we were wrong. But, what you need to understand is the tone with which the man asserted that their gas didn’t smell like rotten eggs. It was derisive, haughty, and, frankly, insulting. As if we were idiots to describe that – threatening – smell in such a way. And, neither he nor his partner would let this faux pas go – they kept saying things like, “It doesn’t smell like rotten eggs” and “You don’t know what you’re talking about” and “We’ll determine whether or not there is any problem here,” etc. – all with that same, curiously hostile and dismissive attitude.

The man had a device with him to check for leaking gas, a handheld instrument with a tube attached to it, something like a Geiger counter. It clicked slowly, perhaps at one-second intervals, when there was no unexpected presence of gas, but clicked quite rapidly when there was a significant amount of gas present. When he steered the end of the tube behind our gas stove, it went ballistic, clicking like mad.

We had a gas leak.

This meant that the duo had to check all gas appliances in the house as well as the source of the gas coming into our house. Down to the basement we went – water heaters, fine; incoming gas line (in our tenants’ apartment), fine; upstairs gas fireplace, fine. Throughout all of these additional checks, they continued to be hostile and dismissive of my and my wife’s concerns. They did, in the end, replace the flexible hose leading from the gas valve to the back of our stove, but I doubt I will ever understand why they were so rude to us.

Discovering that you have gas leaking in your house late at night is rather troubling and worrisome. In that, well… the house could have blown up!

The kicker? The literature that they left with us after we signed to cover the bill contains the following line: “Peoples Gas adds an odorant (Mercaptan) that smells like sulfur or rotten eggs to alert you in the event of a gas leak.”

Maybe they should tell their workers that.

Namaste.

Identity Theft

It’s been far too long since I’ve posted anything on this blog – life has simply been overwhelmingly busy of late. In May, I completed my MFA in Writing and had the great honor of addressing my fellow graduates and the assembled guests at graduation. The following day, I enjoyed the privilege of giving a public reading from my recently published chapbook, Meeting Dad: A Memoir (Accents Publishing, 2010), at the Morris Bookshop in Lexington, Kentucky. (By the way, if you find yourself in Lexington, pay a visit to this terrific independent bookstore! They are great and friendly and knowledgeable and everything you want in a bookstore experience.)

Earlier this month, I started teaching at DeVry University here in Chicago. I am teaching English 112 (Essay Writing) to 29 high school students who are part of a wildly innovative program called the DeVry University Achievement Academy, whereby the students complete their high school education and earn an Associates Degree at the same time. I’m also teaching HUMN 303 (Introduction to the Humanities) to juniors in pursuit of a Bachelor’s Degree. Seven credit hours over an eight-week summer session is a pretty heavy load, but I am, by and large, loving it! It is a privilege to teach, and an awesome responsibility. (By the way, I don’t use the word “awesome” very often, but in this case, it is the exact, right word.)

So, why is the title of this posting “Identity Theft?”

I learned earlier today that my debit card number has somehow been compromised. I don’t know whether it was due to some store losing data that a thief got a hold of or whether someone transcribed the numbers while they had my card in order to process a transaction. My debit card is in the right front pocket of my pants at all times, except when it is on my desk when I go to sleep at night. But, I learned today that someone – some thief – made an innocuous charge of $2.49 to some company in Kansas and a very much less-than-innocuous charge of $1,675 to a jewelry store in Los Angeles today! The debit card has been cancelled, a new one ordered, and a fraud claim will be filed within the next day or so.

How the thief or thieves secured my debit card number is a mystery. The good news is that my bank has assured me that once I’ve filed a fraud affidavit, my money will be returned to me – along with any bank fees that might be assessed while this whole issue is working itself out. The bad news is that it’s going to take me a few days to clear up this whole mess, and that during that time, I will have no access to a pretty significant amount of money.

Ah well… these things happen. I’m not going to let it ruin my day or week. I have classes to teach, papers to grade, and an upcoming birthday for my wife to prepare for. I guess I wanted to share this with you simply to say, be cautious. Be careful. Shred anything that might have account numbers on it. And, most importantly, be well.

Namaste.

You Don’t Know Jack

So I just watched the premiere of Barry Levinson’s new film, You Don’t Know Jack, starring Al Pacino as Jack “Dr. Death” Kevorkian. It was extraordinarily well made and featured the most nuanced and understated performance I’ve seen from Pacino on-screen in, well, a long, long, time! He was great, as were Brenda Vacarro (as Jack’s sister Margo) and Susan Sarandon (as a Hemlock Society organizer who is stricken with pancreatic cancer) and Chicago’s own, Rondi Reed (as the judge who finally sent Jack to jail).

More importantly than it being a good film, however, is the issue with which the film engages – namely, assisted suicide, death with dignity, or euthanasia – depending upon your point of view. I personally believe that if a human being is suffering unbearable pain with a terminal illness and is rational that he or she should be allowed to request that a doctor help usher him or herself out of this world with some dignity, some grace. I understand (and respect) the concerns that some have about potential abuses if we as a society were to embrace this, but I also believe (strongly) that there are some pretty simple ways to avoid abuse – like getting two or three opinions from licensed doctors that the patient is mentally competent.

Look at what happens all too often now: many folks are bankrupted in the last months (or weeks, or even days) of their lives spending all they have on medical care that is more about prolonging their life than improving their life. Or making them comfortable. Why is it okay that people go bankrupt to spend another several weeks in agony? Or, why can’t we trust that a patient who is in constant pain and has no chance of recovery might reasonably wish to simply let go – say their goodbyes, get their affairs in order, and let go? Is that irrational? I think not.

This whole subject seems to have moved to the back burner of our national discourse in the past several years – understandably so, given wars and the recession, et al – but perhaps its time we start to discuss it again. At the moment, only the state of Oregon has any allowance for physician-assisted suicide. Perhaps I’ll move there if I am unfortunate enough to contract a life-threatening terminal disease.

It’s a conversation worth having, I think. It’s hard, yes. It’s painful, yes. But it matters. None of us want our loved ones to suffer needlessly and yet so many do, every day of every year. I’m hoping that this fine movie might help spur an increased dialogue on this very important – and, very controversial – subject.

Namaste.